


The Tie That Binds

by Lorelei



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: First Kiss, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei/pseuds/Lorelei
Summary: Aunt Dahlia asks "Who is going to look after you? Who is going to remember your birthday and make sure you’re not alone on Christmas? Don’t you want someone to grow old with?”And Bertie replies, “Oh, don’t worry about that, aged A! Jeeves will look after me!”





	The Tie That Binds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JuneLoveland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuneLoveland/gifts).



Aunts are a dodgy species. Some are reasonably good eggs most of the time, which allows them to sneak up on you. Take my Aunt Dahlia. When you are a tiny sprog of a boy she’ll slip you sweets and all she asks in return is that you sit up straight and chew with your mouth closed. At the time it sounds like a good bargain. Who wouldn’t pretend to have a broomstick for a spine and masticate their chocolate buttons with firmly sealed lips? A little later when you are a gangly stripling of a lad she slips you a quid and it doesn’t seem too much for her to ask you to dance with that poor wallflower Miss Bowes-Lyon. What’s one dance compared to a quid worth of whatever you like? It’s only when you’ve flowered into the fullness of manhood that you discover that she has been grooming you all along for a life of handing out grammar school prizes, pinching cow creamers and, worst of all, marriage. 

A chap can only conclude that there is some kind of intergenerational feminine cabal wherein adolescent girls questing for soulmates swear to redeem any favors received by sacrificing their firstborn, and their second and third and so on, to the cause so that the girls who come after them have a guaranteed source of quality husbands. My Aunt Dahlia seems intent on satisfying her debt to the matrimonial gods with me.

Having in the past tried to land me with sporty girls and simpering girls and suitable girls and pretty girls, she was now pursuing a devious new tack and flinging me relentlessly together with a mature, elegant, brainy woman. 

The aged relative had summoned me to her domain by telegram, one of her favorite means of communication.

IDIOT NEPHEW, COME AT ONCE. BRING TAILCOAT. –TRAVERS

As it happened, it was convenient for me to leave town at the moment as it would get me round Gussie’s invitation to accompany him to a lecture on the Great Crested Newt. Normally I wouldn’t scruple to tell the chap that I simply didn’t share his passion for the subject, crested or otherwise, but he was in a bit of a delicate way at the moment so it would be kinder to beg family duties than to simply tell him to go jump in a lake. Though, come to think of it, lakes are one of the known haunts of newts aren’t they?

In any case, Jeeves packed up the necessary wardrobe for a gentleman in the country, including the t. c. and accoutrements, and we set off for Brinkley Court. Upon arriving, I found a house party in full swing. There were a number of Aunt Dahlia’s set, the Earl of Kimberley and his wife, Lord and Lady Hervey their daughter, The Lady Regina Hervey, along with a few of the usual suspects, including my cousins and Tuppy Glossop. Aunt D had mustered me round to balance out the table and squire Miss Hervey.

It all started off innocently enough. Uncle Tom was entertaining the gentlemen in his study when Aunt Dahlia sent word that I was to escort Miss Hervey in to dinner. Fair enough. One expects to escort someone in to dinner when one is summoned to balance the table and it is always nice to have a little advance notice. 

Anatole, Aunt Dahlia’s cook, served up his usual sterling stuff. It is not too much to say that Anatole is worth his weight in gold. Or truffles. Whichever is more precious? Over the lobster bisque I tossed out a trial conversational balloon, as one does. “Spiffing weather we’re having, what?”

It was a relief when Miss Hervey deftly upped the ante and batted the conversational ball back to me with a little more substance. “Yes, it has been unusually mild for December. No ‘icy fang and churlish chiding of the winter’s wind’. I understand you enjoy the theater, Mr. Wooster?” And off we went, comparing notes on Noel Coward’s outrageous new comedy, The Vortex. I was of the opinion that the hero, Nicky Lancaster, had had a narrow and providential escape from unhappiness whereas Miss Hervey found the broken engagement sad. We both did agree that the critics’ suspicions that cocaine was an allusion to another vice that dare not speak its name had merit.

After Anatole’s splendid sole, Aunt Dahlia deftly turned the conversational table, initiating the ritual switching of conversational partners, and I was left with my cousin Angela for the duration of the roast and salad. “What ho, old thing! Gotten engaged to anyone lately?” This conversational opener proved a dash less successful than the previous one and Cousin A proceeded to give me an earful on the subject of a) tact and b) discretion.

As the cheese boards appeared, the table turned again and my conversation with Miss Hervey resumed with the subject of cricket and whether we had any prospect of reclaiming The Ashes from Down Under this year. 

Dinner was pleasant enough, but over the course of the weekend, it became clear that Aunt Dahlia was throwing Miss Hervey and myself together rather shamelessly. We were partnered at bridge and Meaningful Looks were thrown around whenever hearts were bid. It was like being under assault from a phalanx of well bred cupids. Next, I was pressed into bundling up and showing Miss Hervey the skating pond. I must say that went better than expected. Neither of us fancied the exertion of skating, so we ended up in cozied up in laprobes and garden chairs, throwing sticks for the corgis to fetch. Somehow Aunt D. even arranged for it to be just Miss Hervey and myself at breakfast one morning. I can’t see how she managed that. She must have rousted everyone else out at dawn to make sure they’d be out of the way before I came down. I have this vision of her walking the corridors banging pots, until she gets to my room and starts tiptoeing. 

The absolute limit, however, was the evening she arranged a séance that we were all required to attend. How she got Uncle Tom to swallow paying for such nonsense or where she acquired the medium I do not know. The aged relative, who had previously evinced no particular belief in the supernatural, herded us all into the drawing room with a straight face, to hear the latest gossip from the spirit world. Of course, this was all just an excuse to turn out the lights and force us to hold hands in the dark and, of course, I was seated next to Miss Hervey. I must say that she was a trouper through all of this, the picture of perfect courtesy and good sportsmanship under the demands of an increasingly loony hostess. I did catch Miss Hervey looking under the tablecloth during the tea break, though. She explained that she was trying to work out how the ghostly knocks of the dead spirits were produced. One rap for 'yes' and two for 'no' and so on. 

This parade of forced togetherness brought us to what was clearly the pinnacle of Aunt Dahlia's campaign. She had arranged a ball for Saturday night, a ball at which I was expected to entertain Miss Hervey. I was buttonholed and informed, in my aunt’s booming manner, that I was to make an extra effort both in dress and deportment. And then she began to hang mistletoe. Everywhere. 

\-------------

As Jeeves laid out my dinner kit, I put the problem to him. “I should be grateful if you would give me your advice, Jeeves.”

“Of course, sir. I recommend standard black tie for this evening.”

“No, no, Jeeves. Well, that is to say, yes of course black tie for this evening. But that is not the particular puzzle I had intended to put to you. It’s Miss Hervey. I have seen a familiar gleam in her eye. I think she is sizing me up as a matrimonial prospect and with Aunt Dahlia backing her, I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time before I will be maneuvered into a situation where the only gentlemanly thing to do will be to propose.”

Jeeves gave me a considering sort of look. “And you do not wish to propose, sir? It has seemed that you were enjoying Miss Hervey’s company over the past few days.”

I shuddered. Why would Jeeves even ask such a question? How could he think I would upset the applecart of domestic harmony by introducing a wife into things? “Dash it all, she’s nice enough but, no, matrimony is the furthest thing from the mind of one B. Wooster. I think you’d like Miss Hervey Jeeves. She hasn’t mentioned baby bunnies once. And whenever I’m trying to remember a quotation of some kind she pipes right up with the bits that have slithered round to the back of my mind. She appreciates Anatole’s food and actually eats it. And her dresses are beautiful quality silk and obviously made by someone who knows what they’re doing. I should think my aunt would do well to get her to write a column on The Well Dressed Woman for _Milady’s Boudoir_. But what does Miss Hervey want with me? I don’t think I have implied in any way that I’m seeking matrimonial partners, so why does it look like she might be fitting me up for a morning suit and a ring? What about me says 'he's the one' to every female under the age of 30 who is acquainted with one of my aunts?”

The corner of Jeeves’ lip turned just slightly upward. “Well, sir, … you have a certain joie de vivre. You get a great deal of enjoyment out of life. Miss Hervey may feel that with you at her side, she is certain to enjoy life as well. You are generous and loyal to your friends and family. She may feel that once your affections are bestowed, you would be a man of your word and that you would be both a happy and a constant companion on life’s path. A lady might also think your figure dashing and elegant, sir.”

“Jeeves,” I replied, “I am more fond of me than most people are, but I am not seeing what you describe.”

He began to putter in the wardrobe, finding just the right shirt. “Please take my word for it sir. I am an authority in these things.”

I was not sure which things Jeeves was claiming to be an authority on, probably generosity and loyalty as those were things he had in spades. Possibly he thought his own best attributes were rubbing off on the young master? I wrested my mind back to the problem at hand. “If Miss Hervey were a chap, I expect we would get on famously and I’d ask her for her tailor and we would play darts together. But she isn’t a chap and I don’t care who makes her dresses and I don’t want to see her across my teacup in the morning. You’ve got to help me, Jeeves!”

Jeeves got his considering look on his face. His mouth pursed and then relaxed. His eyebrow rose and then descended. “I believe I have a scheme that will work, sir. You say that Miss Hervey has a keen sense of fashion?”

“Almost as fussy as you, Jeeves.” I replied.

“And the lady is particularly observant?” he asked.

I nodded. “She’s not Sherlock Holmes, but yes, she catches on to things quite quickly. She spotted that fake medium’s seance tricks soon enough.”

“Then I advise you to wear something to the ball that will offend her sense of good taste, sir.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I don’t think I’d get very far if I tried to wear my bathrobe to the ballroom. Aunt Dahlia would have me quarantined before I’d gotten to the punch bowl.”

“I had in mind something more subtle than that, sir. On a few occasions in the past you have been good enough to follow my wardrobe advice.”

I interrupted. “You mean, don’t you, that you have given me the cold shoulder and frozen me out until I agree to let you confiscate some item just because it happened to be a few years ahead of fashion?”

Jeeves’ face softened. “Indeed, sir, I was not aware that my opinion held such sway.”

“Well, it jolly well does.” I replied.

“I shall endeavor to remember that in the future, sir. For the present, it is relevant that I have retained the items that were the cause of disagreement.”

I boggled. “Jeeves! You kept my white dinner jacket and my plaid socks and all of it? But why?”

He shifted his gaze toward the window. “Although obviously unsuitable, they were objects of importance to you, sir. In any case, I can have the green and red bow tie with the reindeer and poinsettias sent up on the evening train and I believe if you were to wear that item to Saturday's festivities, it would give Miss Hervey pause.”

“It’s a very festive tie,” I protested, “full to the brim with seasonal whatnot!”

“Indeed, sir.” He replied. “It is also, if you will forgive my saying so, garish. But let us not rehash old business.”

“No,” I conceded. “Let sleeping ties lie and all that. You really think that tie is potent enough to ward off a woman’s affections all on its own?”

Jeeves got his scheming look on his face again. “I believe the efficacy of the tie will be much enhanced if we can contrive for Miss Hervey to observe me tying or adjusting it for you, sir.” 

“However are we to pull that off, Jeeves? It’s not as though you’d allow me out of my room without my tie?” I protested.

He tapped his lip in consideration. “Perhaps you could wear the green and red tie when you enter the ballroom. Then I will approach a side door discreetly with a more formal tie and ask a footman to inform you of my presence. Miss Hervey will then observe me replacing your tie.”

I had to wonder whether Jeeves was off his form. “So the green and red tie is so garishly mighty that mere minutes of it will be enough to nobble a gent who previously looked like a shoo-in for the Royal Ascot of romance? And then you can replace it with something more suitable? I think you overestimate the power of this tie, Jeeves.”

“It would help, sir,” he said, “if you would make some comment to Miss Hervey regarding the tie when you enter and again once it is replaced.” 

“Make some comment? What kind of comment?” I asked. 

“I leave that to your discretion, sir. You are a naturally loquacious person and I am confident that you will know just what to say when the time comes.” 

“If you say so, Jeeves. I am placing my future happiness in your hands.”

He smiled. “I appreciate your confidence, sir.”

\-------------

When the night of the dance arrived, I felt rather spiffy in my holiday bowtie as Seppings announced me and I made my entry into the ballroom. I was wary of spoiling Jeeves’s clever plan with all the extra joie de vivre I was getting from the tie. Who can tell what kind of tie girls will take to, but as Jeeves said surely they prefer a fellow who is feeling his oats and prancing happily along with joy and confidence? 

The ballroom was about half occupied as people were still arriving. The band was just starting to play but the dancing had not yet begun. I spotted Miss Hervey nursing a cup of punch along the edge of the dance floor and toddled along to give her a good view of the mighty bowtie. “Hullo, ullo, ullo!” I cried. I could see that she was impressed with the tie as she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. 

“Good evening, Mr. Wooster,” she said. 

Remembering what Jeeves said, I started on my assigned part of the scheme. “I can see that you’ve spotted my holiday tie. Very festive, what?”

Miss Hervey seemed at a bit of a loss for words. “Ah, yes. It is certainly eye-catching.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it. Not everyone does.” It was at that point that a footman coughed quietly at my elbow. “Excuse me a moment,” I said.

Thompson conveyed that Jeeves was waiting for me at the side door and gestured inconspicuously in the correct direction. I looked over to see Jeeves, upright and proper as always, hovering in a cozy nearby alcove with a scrap of silk in his hand. I smiled warmly, thinking that one could really count on Jeeves to come through when it counted. Apparently he thought the tie so potent that it could only be let out for mere minutes. Or he was just trying to replace it before Aunt Dahlia saw it and let rip with her uncensored opinion of it. In any case I trotted obediently over to the alcove for a tête-a-tête-a-tie.

“I say, Jeeves,” I whispered conspiratorially, “you’re here early.”

He inclined his head toward mine and murmured “It seemed prudent to stage this before things got crowded, such that Miss Hervey would have a clear view when your tie is replaced, sir.”

“I still don’t see how you think me having my tie changed is so off-putting, Jeeves?” I pouted.

“It is not the changing of the tie, sir,” he explained, “but the fact that you have allowed the changing and that I am doing the changing.”

“If you say so, Jeeves.” I shrugged. “I don’t see what is so important about a valet tying a man’s tie.”

He regarded one Bertram W. with a look of exasperated fondness. “May I replace your tie now, sir?”

I nodded, “Certainly, Jeeves.” As I lifted my chin to allow him better access, I spotted one of Aunt D’s dratted sprigs of match-making hovering over our heads. “Look at that, we’re under the mistletoe.” I grinned.

Jeeves smiled as he completed a perfect bow with the new tie. “Yes, sir. It seemed an appropriate bit of window dressing for our plan.”

I put my chin back where it belonged and gave the man a puzzled look. “It is?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, it is.” He brushed a bit of something off of my collar and then stepped back, nodding his approval. 

“This is it? I just trot on back to Miss Hervey now and say something else about ties?” I inquired skeptically.

“Indeed, sir.” He replied softly. “I have observed that Miss Hervey was watching this interaction and I believe you will find her attitude somewhat changed upon your return.”

I must confess that I had a moment of doubt. I thought Jeeves was losing his touch. But nothing could have been further from the truth. I toddled along back to Miss Hervey as instructed. “Sorry about that,” I apologized. “Jeeves is not as fond of the Christmas tie as I am.”

She seemed to be looking at me as though she had never seen me before. “Has Jeeves been with you long?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” I replied. “Donkey’s years. Don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s a stickler about ties, but that’s a small price to pay.”

Miss Hervey looked again toward the alcove. It seemed to me that she met Jeeves’ eye and nodded. From then on out she was cordial and polite but the worrying warmth had disappeared from her manner. I still don’t understand why the sight of my tie being replaced had that effect. I can only put it down to Jeeves’ natural genius.

\-------------

The next day, the Herveys decamped back to their ancestral seat and Aunt Dahlia cornered me in the library. She heaved a sigh. “Bertie, you pestilential pustule, you know I’m fond of you, don’t you?”

“Well, old bean,” I replied, “I’m rather attached to you as well.” The Woosters are well endowed with upper lips of supreme stiffness and are not usually given to soppy declarations of affection, so I was rather worried by this unusual conversational tack. Was I being softened up? Did Uncle Tom require another cow creamer for his collection?

“I am not getting any younger. I’m in good health now but someday I will inevitably go to my great reward and it would put me at peace to know that you were taken care of, my boy. How many times have you been engaged now? And you’ve managed to wriggle out of every one of them. You can give me those ‘who me’, flappy fish-mouth looks all you like, I know that it’s no coincidence or run of bad luck. You deliberately avoid getting married. But, Bertie, wouldn’t you like to have a legacy, an heir? And who is going to look after you? Who is going to remember your birthday and make sure you’re not alone on Christmas? Don’t you want someone to grow old with?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, aged A! Jeeves will look after me!” I assured her.

“Yes, he will, won’t he?” She got a sort of faraway, thinking look on her face. “Maybe it’s Jeeves I should be having a word with. Perhaps he can be made to see sense.”

While she was distracted with all that thinking, I grabbed my g. and t. and eased my way back out of the library. 

\-------------

As I lay in the silken sheets that evening, the whatnot that knits up raveled thingummies of care eluded me. As I tossed and turned, I couldn’t help but consider what the ancient relative had said. It wouldn’t leave my head. It was like a particularly energetic schnauzer chasing its own tail around the inside of my skull. 

Did I want a legacy and an heir? As for legacies, I didn’t see that they were worth much and, besides, I already have one. I tied for the championship of the Drones Club Annual Darts Tournament several years running. My name is engraved on a very handsome plaque that hangs in the smoking room. “Bertram W. Wooster, Darts Co-Champion, 1918-22” right there in silver plate for chaps of good character and their guests to feast their eyes upon for all eternity. I am rubbish at darts, of course, though I do enjoy it. It was only that Jeeves always feeds me a hearty steak before I set off that evening so I have more ballast to soak up the gin than the other fellows and thus am usually one of the last ones on my feet. So, really, my triumphant legacy owes a good bit to Jeeves.

Now, heirs are a trickier business. I do not personally like children. They are boorish conversationalists and also sticky. To have one hanging about all the time that you could not return to its parent, because you were its parent, did not appeal. Of course, I’m not in line for the title and nothing is entailed, so there was no reason for me to necessarily require heirs of the body per se. With no title or ancestral land to consider, I could just leave my bits and bobs and pounds to whomever I bally well pleased. So it seems to me that I can acquire an heir without acquiring a wife and children. 

Which brings us to Christmas and my birthday. Generally on my birthday I go to the Drones and make some silly bet with one of the chaps that he can’t eat a number of eggs equal to my age or some such, pleasantly whiling away the hours as one does. Some Christmases I spend with the Travers household at Brinkley Court. Or sometimes I have a quiet day at home listening to the wireless in front of the fire. Or there was that year of exile in the States with the window displays on 5th Avenue and the jazz clubs. But wherever I am, on Christmas or on my birthday, it always begins with Jeeves’ gentle clearing of the throat as he brings me my tea tray or, sometimes, his own personal patented hangover remedy. Birthdays wouldn’t be birthdays and Christmases wouldn’t be Christmas without Jeeves. 

But did he see things the same way? Did Aunt Dahlia know something? Was she trying to tell me that Jeeves wouldn’t be around forever? As I nodded off toward the nightly nap, weak and weary, I pondered.

\-------------

The next morning, feeling somewhat refreshed, I decided to put the matter to Jeeves directly. As he brought in my morning tea, I tossed my opening conversational salvo. “I say, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?” he replied as he set the tray on my bedside table.

I took a sip of leafy ambrosia. It was perfectly brewed, as always. “Are you well?” I asked. “How’s the old ticker?”

Jeeves paused to consider this. “I am in perfect health, thank you, sir.”

So it was not that Aunt Dahlia expected Jeeves to be shuffling off to his own great reward anytime soon. Perhaps she had gotten on to some gossip that suggested that Jeeves had gone a-wooing and would soon have his own wife and heirs to look after on holidays? The propriety of the upstairs-downstairs divide means that one often knows quite little about one’s most constant companions. “Do you have any plans for Christmas?” I inquired.

This caught Jeeves’ attention. “Perhaps a tree in the sitting room, sir? And a little greenery on the mantle? I have already taken the liberty of laying in a few bottles of suitable port. And I thought perhaps goose for Christmas dinner?” Details of domestic harmony always excite Jeeves’ imagination. He has a knack for perfection in these things.

“That sounds splendid” I replied. “What about next year and the year after that?”

Jeeves turned from where he had been drawing the curtains. “Did you wish for something specific, sir? Or more novelty in the holiday routine? Perhaps turkey instead of goose? Or cognac instead of port? A sprig of mistletoe in a suitable location?” A slight frown of doubt appeared. He seemed worried that I was dissatisfied. Jeeves could never be said to fuss over me, but he seemed to pride himself on knowing just what I would like.

“No, no, Jeeves,” I hastened to assure him, “the usual routine is just fine with me. In fact I was trying to make sure that you weren’t planning on something different from the usual routine. Something like getting married and spending your holidays with a Mrs. Jeeves or joining the foreign legion or some such.” I watched him under my eyelashes as I took another mouthful of hot oolong.

Jeeves countenance resumed its usual smooth demeanor. “I assure you, sir, that I am perfectly content with my present situation.” He laid my dressing gown within my reach for when I was ready to rise. “Will that be all, sir?”

I nodded and hmmm-ed and Jeeves floated silently and elegantly out of the room. On the one hand, I was chuffed. Jeeves was content and had no plans to hie off to elsewhere. On the other hand, now that I had gotten the idea of a Mrs. Jeeves in my head I couldn’t let go of it. 

Jeeves would make a splendid husband, of course. There was no doubt of that. He would be the sort who would actually remember birthdays and anniversaries and produce flowers and whatnot precisely on schedule. But somehow the idea of Jeeves doting on a wife seemed … wrong. I couldn’t see him going all mawkish and turtledovey over a woman. And what woman would be worthy of Jeeves? She would need to truly appreciate the way he had of appearing when he was most needed. And his keen ability to solve any problem. And the fact that he had the greats of literature and philosophy at the tip of his eloquent tongue. I should also think that she would have to have a lot of tolerance for letting him meddle with her wardrobe and veto her hats. How many women would put up with that? 

The thought of Jeeves turning up his nose at Mrs. Jeeves’ hat gave me dyspepsia. I put down my cup of tea. Why on earth did I care about Mrs. Jeeves’ chapeaux when there wasn’t presently a Mrs. Jeeves and apparently none in the offing for the near future? I thought about this as I stared at the bright sunny day outside my bedroom window. Why should I care about the nonexistent hat of a fictional Mrs. Jeeves? It came to me that Mrs. Jeeves’ dashed hat was so disconcerting because it was my hat at which Jeeves ought to be sniffing. Once you put it like that, I could see that I frankly didn’t want to share Jeeves with this Mrs. Jeeves. It simply wouldn’t do. She would have to fend for herself on the hat front and she would certainly have to make her own tea. 

It came to me that I was jealous. I had gone all green-eyed monster of irrationality over this Mrs. Jeeves. To put it plainly, I didn’t want her taking Jeeves’ attention. I wanted Jeeves’ attentions for myself.

Oh, dear. Not just Jeeves’ attention, but his attentions. That was something of a revelation to me. How long had the inside of my head been desiring that? When had wanting to acknowledge my appreciation of Jeeves’ talents by letting him confiscate bowties turned into wanting to be the one who made him happy?

\-------------

I spent the day puttering in distracted thought. Dash it all, I mean what is a gentleman supposed to do when the world is turned upside down and white is black and in is out and he finds himself desiring the attentions of his manservant? I picked up a book. I put it back down again. I sat in my favorite spot in the armchair in front of the fire. Usually a nice sit with a meditative gaze into the fire and perhaps a relaxing cocktail or some mellow jazz on the gramophone was just the thing for putting one B. Wooster at his ease. But today sitting was no good. My brain was too awhirl for sitting still. I got back up again and wandered into the kitchen in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Jeeves and jogging my thinking with a dose of his rational countenance. 

But when confronted with his gentle "Yes, sir? May I help you?" my thinking was more joggled than jogged. What could I say? "Why, yes, Jeeves! Could you insult my hat, please?" That did not seem to me to be the way a gentleman ought to comport himself, even when up was down and cats were dogs, particularly when the gentleman in question was not presently wearing a hat.

So I said "Erhm, mmm, yes, Jeeves. Thank you. Have we got any orange marmalade?" 

"Yes, sir. We opened a new jar last Tuesday. Would you care for toast with marmalade, sir?"

"No, no. Just wondering. Carry on." Goodness knows why orange marmalade popped into my head. I think it is because I once happened upon Jeeves having his own tea and observed the extraordinary sight of him licking a spot of the o. m. off of his lower lip. Jeeves’ lips. Did I really want to think about Jeeves’ lips? Was I ready to think about Jeeves’ lips?

I slunk back out of the kitchen to the hall to pick the post up and put it down again and look out the door to see if anyone was there. The day continued in much the same manner. I puttered. I fidgeted. I dillydallied. I dawdled. And I took every opportunity to sneak glances at Jeeves. He was the same chap today as he was yesterday. He straightened. He dusted. He made tea. But somehow it was all different. It was a bit like having a heart full of magnets that were determined to leap out of my chest to pin themselves to the shining steel pillar that was Jeeves. 

I was pretending to clip my nails so that I could watch Jeeves in the bathroom mirror when I accidentally clipped my finger instead. “Ow! Dash it!” I was on my way toward sticking my finger in my mouth when I felt Jeeves reach around me and take my hand.

“Allow me, sir.” He held my hand very gently and grabbed a wet cloth to dab softly at the dribble of blood. Leaning over my shoulder, he examined the damage. “A small cut, sir, though no doubt painful. Permit me to bandage it for you.”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I breathed unsteadily. Did my hand hurt? I suppose my hand hurt. But that had entirely left my mind the minute Jeeves touched me. Jeeves was holding my hand.

He was his usual solicitous self as he wrapped my finger. “I see that this has affected you, sir. May I suggest that you seat yourself and I will bring you a cup of tea.” 

“Tea? Tea. Yes, capital idea, Jeeves.” I sat, as instructed, and Jeeves rallied round with a nice cuppa. He then proceeded to hover and make sure I drank it without fainting or some such.

Jeeves was lovely. And attentive. I felt like I was the center of the universe and lit up with the flaming happiness of a thousand suns while Jeeves orbited loyally around me, playing Venus to my Sol. And thus was born the longest, best run of ill health I have ever enjoyed. And enjoy it I did.

A few days after the finger-cutting incident, I limped into the flat, returning from an afternoon at the Drones Club. “Jeeves,” I called. 

“Yes, sir?” he answered, appearing from the kitchen.

“I say, I seem to have pulled something in my leg. Only Oofy Prosser bet me that I couldn’t touch my nose with my foot and how could I pass up a provocation like that?” I asked, leaning on the little table in the entryway.

Jeeves seemed torn between fussing and smiling fondly. “Yes, sir. It would not be in your nature to, as you say, ‘pass up’ an opportunity for a sporting wager such as Mr. Prosser offered. Are you much hurt, sir?” he inquired sympathetically.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” I said, trying to sound stoic and brave. “It’s only a bit of stiffness, really. I’m sure if I stay off of it for a few days it’ll be just fine.”

Jeeves offered his arm for me to lean on, “Allow me to assist you to the drawing room, sir.” 

He settled me into an armchair and fetched an ottoman to prop up my bad leg and a medicinal measure of brandy to, as he put it, ‘help relax the affected muscles’.

“Would you like me to turn on the wireless, sir?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. At this hour it’d just be the stock reports. Not the most entertaining subject. Maybe a book.”

“May I recommend Mrs. Christie’s latest, sir? It is a short story collection called _Poirot Investigates_. I believe you will find it diverting.” He chose a tome off of one of the shelves and offered it to me.

“That sounds like just the thing, Jeeves. Thank you.” I settled in to read. The first story started out with an American starlet and a fabulous diamond, which seemed promising. 

Over the next few days Jeeves escorted me assiduously from room to room and made sure I was well supplied with nibbles and drinks and ottomans and pillows to prop up my leg. It was like Mary and her little goat. Or was it a lamb? Which is not to say that I mean to compare Jeeves to a farm animal, or myself either. But wherever I went, Jeeves was sure to go. I wallowed happily in all the attention he was paying me. I occasionally forgot which leg I ought to be favoring, but I don’t think he noticed. Gradually, and reluctantly, I declared myself healed and things went back to their usual routine.

A week or so later, when Jeeves brought my morning tea, I groaned. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather today. It’s, it’s, er, it’s like I’ve got bricks in my face. I think it’s my sinuses. Yes, definitely my sinuses.” 

A look of concern crossed Jeeves’ face. “I am sorry to hear that, sir. I believe the warm liquid of the tea should be efficacious.”

I pulled myself listlessly into a half sitting position and poured on the pathos. “I don’t know if I have the energy for tea, Jeeves.”

“Allow me, sir.” Then my beautiful paragon of a valet picked up the cup and held it to my lips. 

I was so enthralled with watching his face as he leaned over me that I almost forgot to drink. But as Jeeves tilted the cup, I obediently sipped. “Inhale the vapors of the tea, sir. That should aid in opening your breathing passages.” I drew a long breath of oolong steam and had another sip of tea. 

“You might sit on the edge of the bed, Jeeves, rather than looming over me,” I suggested.

The cup stilled for a moment. “I would not presume to take the liberty, sir.”

“Nonsense, my good Jeeves. If anyone is taking liberties, it is I. Or is it me? In any case, you would be doing me a very great favor if you would please sit.” I batted my eyelashes beseechingly with my most endearing expression, the one that used to finagle sweets out of Aunt Dahlia. 

Jeeves sat. “Very good, sir. If it pleases you.”

“It does,” I assured him.

After the tea I pleaded that my head was too stuffed to do anything and asked him to read to me. He removed himself to the chair, but proceeded to read the next story in _Poirot Investigates_ , "The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor". Jeeves has a particularly fruity voice. It is at once smooth and authoritative. And he didn’t mind when I interrupted him to discuss our theories as to who had done it and why. Of course Jeeves guessed the correct solution miles before I did. I’d say that he even beat Poirot to the punch, except that Poirot plays things entirely too close to the vest, so who knows when he figured it out. While Jeeves read, I got to staring at his lips. They were on my mind again. At noon I persuaded Jeeves to return to sitting on the edge of the bed as he spooned soup into my mouth. It was a spiffing day. Jeeves was very patient with me and I think he might have actually enjoyed spoiling the young master. I didn’t think I could stretch it too far, though, so I declared myself recovered on the following morning.

You know the saying about what happens when first we practice to deceive? Well, I was eventually snared in my own tangled web of deceit. Matters came to a head the day I decided that a head injury would be sure to be good for an entire week of Jeeves' undivided attention. I pretended to slip on something at the top of the stairs. Only things got a bit out of control and I came down like a lead piano falling out of a third story window. The wind knocked out of me, I lay limply at the foot of the stairs trying to catch my breath.

Suddenly I felt my head being gently cradled in someone’s lap. “Oh, Bertie,” they sighed, almost too quiet to hear. “Thank goodness you’re breathing. You gave me such a scare. What will I do with you? I haven’t taken very good care of you lately.”

I opened my eyes to find Jeeves’ concerned face hovering above me and a warm hand stroking my brow. Jeeves actually used my given name! That seemed like a very promising sign. “Not only breathing but conscious, old fruit. Does this mean I can call you Reggie?" I asked hopefully. "And you’ve done a splendid job of taking care of me, especially considering I wasn’t actually sick but was only faking so you would nurse me.”

The stroking stopped and Jeeves’ face struggled to regain its usual detached efficiency. “I knew you were faking, sir. But by permitting the situation to continue in such a manner, I have almost allowed you to come to real harm. I would never forgive myself. If you want to be tucked in and read to, sir, you need only ask.”

I noticed that the ‘sir’s had returned. And I wasn’t having it. I reached out and grasped Jeeves’ hand. “What if I want more, Reg?” I asked.

He looked into my eyes and the tension softened out of his remarkable lips. “Then you shall have it, Bertie. Can you stand? May I make you some tea?”

I squeezed his hand. “Tea won’t do it this time, old thing. I’m afraid that what I want is for you to kiss me and make it better.”

Jeeves hesitated for just a moment. I could see the 'wouldn't dream of taking such a liberty' wheels gearing up in his head. 

“Please, Reggie?” I asked.

“I am putty in your hands, Bertie,” he responded. He bent his head and pressed his velvety lips softly to mine. It was everything I had hoped for and more. Was it Percy Shelley or Mary Shelley who said 'Soul meets soul on lovers' lips'? I was definitely never sharing that with Mrs. Jeeves. And it looked like I wouldn’t have to.


End file.
